Challenge Accepted
by featherxquill
Summary: A rainy night, a pub, and a case for professional misconduct. Julie Dodson/Kevin Lumb


**Author's Note:** For Ana, whose fault it is that I ever started thinking about how this pairing could possibly work, and on whom I blame the existence of this story. We are such terrible influences on each other that I wonder what calamity will befall the world if we ever manage to go out drinking together. My thanks to Aubry for being brave enough to beta.

* * *

 **Challenge Accepted**

You've always liked tall women, and Julie Dodson certainly is that. And always in heels, too, even when she's driving. You noticed it earlier, the way she curled one of her feet under her with the cruise control on, the spike of her heel pointing toward you. You didn't even know it was possible to sit like that while driving, but you noticed the heels, and once you did you couldn't stop noticing them, not even when the rain got heavier and she stopped relying on the cruise control. Now, you find your eyes fixated on the way her foot flexes against the brake and the accelerator, the arch of that long shin under her jeans.

There's nothing else to notice. There certainly isn't any conversation.

Because she hates you. She's your boss, she's a lesbian, and she hates you.

 _Well played, Kevin. What a perfect candidate for an incredibly awkward boner._

You don't really know why she brought you with her in the first place. You _do_ , because she explained it at length in Very Small Words - it was a drugs task force that Syndicate 3 was invited to take part in because of a number of drugs-related murders that had happened on your turf, and because you worked background on three of those cases, you were the best person for the job. But considering that she spent the whole three days barely speaking to you and looking pained every time you opened your mouth, you don't know why she didn't just take Harris and spare you both the agony.

It's an agony that's only been compounded by the fact that she spent the whole three days swanning around in her leather jacket, and in the evenings, the jeans that have so distracted you in the car, the ones that fit her arse like a glove and make her legs go on for days. For three days she's been barking orders at you looking like some kind of punk rock matriarch that you're too afraid _not_ to be attracted to.

Totally, totally inappropriate boner.

You're so fixated on her legs that it takes you a few moments to register that she's speaking.

"This is getting dangerous, I can't see a thing. It's no good, I'm going to have to pull in."

You look up, and the rain is torrential now. It's dark, and the downpour has created a thick mist that makes it impossible to see more than about three feet in front of the car. You've slowed to a crawl and she's turned the fog lights on, but they're not making much of a difference.

Your mouth moves before your brain kicks in: "I could drive for a bit, if you like."

She takes her eyes off the road just long enough to shoot you a look that's disdainful enough to peel paint off a wall.

"Yeah, because all we really need are your man eyes, Kevin."

"I didn't-" you start to protest, but she cuts you off.

"I remember seeing a pub along here on the way over. Hopefully they'll have rooms. We'll stay there tonight and keep on in the morning."

"Okay," you say, swallowing even though your throat's gone dry. You don't have the nerve to say anything else.

It's a small pub, but they do have rooms, two of them, right next to each other. You're sharing a bathroom, but it's better than it could be. As soon as she pulled off the main road you started to imagine a scenario in which they only had one, a double, and you would have to avert your eyes as she undressed for bed then contend with an awkward morning when she woke up with your morning wood digging into her back. No such horror, thank god, but the next sentence out of the pub owner's mouth is almost as terrifying:

"Kitchen's closed, I'm afraid, but if you come down in about twenty minutes I'll do you a mixed plate."

She readily accepts, which of course means you have to as well. You are hungry, but you'd almost rather go without than endure a silent meal with her. You've got half a bag of m&ms in your pocket; that would do, wouldn't it?

You drag your feet on the way up the stairs, lagging behind so much that she turns to glare at you. The hotel proprietor is waiting expectantly at the top of the landing, and you hurry your feet to meet them. Better not to look like a reluctant teenager.

You're shown the doors and handed the keys to your room, and then she's looking you up and down as if only now realising she's going to have to spend the evening in your company. She doesn't look happy about it, but she does at least meet your eyes.

"Well, I'll see you in twenty minutes, then. They're making a special effort for us, don't be tardy."

"Of course not, Ma'am," you say, then stick the key into the lock on your door and flee into the room's safety.

Twenty minutes gives you a chance to wash your face, change into a t-shirt and lay on your bed for a time praying for strength. All too soon, though, your time is up, and you straighten your clothes and head downstairs.

She's already there when you arrive. She's changed too - not out of the heels, you note immediately, but she's switched out her work shirt for a v-necked, form-fitting red number that flashes out from beneath her leather and makes her look even more dangerous than usual. She's leaning on the bar with one foot propped up on a toe. She's bought you a pint.

"Since we're stuck here, figured we might as well make the best of it," she says, sliding the glass toward you. Her own is already half empty. Girding herself for spending the evening with you? Maybe, but buying a pint is a friendly gesture all the same, so you decide to take it in the spirit in which it's offered.

"Thanks." You pick up the glass and take a hearty sip.

You prop an elbow on the bar. She takes a drink of her beer and you gulp another mouthful of yours, and an awkward silence ensues. What exactly are you supposed to say to your boss who hates you when you're stuck in a pub together for the evening?

Thankfully, the pub owner rescues you, appearing around one side of the bar with two plates of food. He asks you where you're sitting and you defer to her. She selects a large booth with plenty of space for both your legs, and reaches out for your pint as she instructs you to grab cutlery - and napkins, as if you're a caveman who'd forget - from the rack by the bar.

You're halfway across the room before you realise that you're just following orders blindly, as usual, and you return to the table with the requested items determined not to spend the rest of the night running around like a retriever.

"Not a bad place to be stuck for the night," you say as you hand her cutlery over and slide into your seat. She takes them without a word of thanks, but looks around the place as you do, taking it in.

It's warm and cozy, all low ceilings with exposed wooden beams and warm yellow lights in recesses on the walls. There's a fire going on one wall and green shaded lamps over the pool table in the corner, but otherwise the place is lit by a big rustic-looking fixture in the centre of the room. The booth you're sitting in is secluded, has high-backed leather seats for privacy. Not that you need them. The weather outside means that you're almost the only ones here - there's a bloke sitting at the bar nursing a pint, and you noticed a couple on your way in, maybe staying as well, but that's about the extent of it at 9pm on a rainy Wednesday evening.

"It'll do," she says. "I wonder if it gets busy at the weekend."

"Got to, surely, to stay in business," you reply, before turning your attention to the food.

Your plate looks like an explosion, a bit of everything from breakfast, lunch and dinner thrown together. There's a chicken strip and chips, grilled mushrooms and tomato, something wrapped in pastry and something crumbed, some peas on the side and a fried egg in the middle, sunny side up.

You laugh. "Won't need a meal tomorrow, then. Got all four food groups right here."

She smiles, and it's the first time you've seen her crack one the whole time you've been away. "Five," she says, chuckling.

"What?" you ask.

"There are five food groups," she responds, sounding amused.

"What?" Now you're just confused. "There never are." You count them on your fingers, remembering school. "Grains, fruit and veg, protein, fats. What's the fifth?"

"Dairy," she says, twirling her fork and smirking.

"Dairy's protein," you counter, adamant.

"It's usually counted separately," she says, then laughs again. "Whatever. Eat your four food groups, then."

"Don't see any dairy on here anyway," you respond.

She spears the crumbed ball on her plate and bites it in half. "Cheese," she says, once she's swallowed, displaying the innards of the thing to you.

Does she always have to win? "Fine," you grouse, picking up your fork as she laughs again.

You both eat. It's surprisingly good for food that's utterly random and probably up to a day old. The medley is all the best bits of hearty pub fare put together, and the beer washes it down perfectly. By the time you get down to the chips you're struggling, but she's still going so you're determined to clean your plate. At the very least, you can _eat more_ than her.

But she manages to clear her plate as well, lounges back and drains her beer after she's devoured the last crumb.

"Get us another, would you?" she asks, dropping her empty pint glass onto the table.

 _Fetch, Kevin. Do that, Kevin._ You're not playing.

"I don't have any cash," you say, which is actually true. You hadn't expected to end up in some pub for the night, after all.

She arches her back and slides her hands under the table, does something that looks obscene but which you suspect is just loosening her belt buckle. It has a strange affect on you anyway, makes you suddenly hot and dry in the throat.

"I started a tab. The department will pay." She shifts to set her wrists back on the table.

Flustered and outmaneuvered, you rise from your seat. It's not much of a chore, really, fetching free beer, but you still don't like the way she's ordering you about. You check your watch as you stand at the bar - 9:30, and you could probably plead knackered now and head up to your room. You've been up since 6, after all. But you know she's probably been up longer, and was driving to boot. You refuse to give her the satisfaction of thinking of you as that soft bastard who put himself to bed before ten. With all the food in your belly, you're not sure you could make it up those stairs just yet either.

You return to the table to find that she's settled in against the back of the booth, long legs stretched out and booted feet propped up on the seat, ankles crossed and heels angled upward so as to not damage the upholstery. When you pass her pint, she gives you a nod, but otherwise regards you like a queen would any other insignificant peasant. You slide back into your seat like a loyal but resentful servant.

"So," she says once you're settled, taking a drink, "what did you learn in the last three days that's going to be useful going forward?"

The question throws you, given that you're onto your second beer and your belly's full of food. "Er..." you stammer.

She waves a hand. "Come on, dot points. A good copper can think at any time of day."

"Communication," you manage, after a moment. "Between forces and also with our own drug squad, identifying problems before they arise."

"Mm," she murmurs, taking another sip of her beer as you gulp your own. "And?"

"Informants," you add. "Where to find them, how to keep them."

"Keep going," she instructs.

"Gang details, who brings in what and what causes turf wars."

"Did you take notes?" she asks.

"Course," you reply. You don't know how thorough they were, or how legible they'll be, but you did take some.

"Good," she says. "I want a dossier on my desk by Friday, everything you think will be important the next time one of these cases comes up."

"You want... From _me?_ " You're flabbergasted that she's trusting you with something so important. She usually gives jobs that matter to the ones she favours, like Christina and Sally.

"Of course," she says. "I'll look at it, add anything I think you missed, but that's why I brought you. You did good background on those cases we worked, and I wanted you to have the chance to improve."

It's the first time she's ever said that, that you did good - at anything, actually. You don't know what to say to that.

"Friday," is what comes out eventually, after you've taken another swig of your beer.

The compliment's disarmed you. You spend several minutes sitting there, saying nothing, and your beer's gone before you know it. You're even more dumbfounded when she gets up, and, instead of announcing that she's headed to bed, offers: "Another?"

"All right," you say, though you're not really sure why.

While she's gone, you check your phone, survey the pub again. The bloke drinking at the bar has gone; it's very quiet. You notice a jukebox in the corner by the pool table and check your pockets. You've a few quid in change - not enough for a round, but enough enough for a song or two. Sliding out of your seat, you wander over to the machine, and you've just put a quid in when she appears beside you.

"Thought you didn't have any money," she says, a smile curling at her mouth as she leans against the machine and offers you your pint. Her leather jacket flaps open as she extends her arm. You take the drink, feeling red, displaying the few remaining coins in your palm.

"This is it. Three plays for a quid." You don't know what comes over you and you speak again before your brain has the chance to catch up: "Any requests, rock star?"

Unlike earlier, though, she doesn't bollock you. Instead, she simply arches an eyebrow and pushes herself away from the machine as she replies, "Yeah. Not shit."

You snort, rolling your eyes as she moves away and you begin to flick through the catalogue. She doesn't go back to the table, though. Instead, her heels click idly across the wooden floor as she walks up the side of the pool table, wanders over to read the poster that advertises the pub's Sunday night kelly pool competition, then inspects the rack of cues. You watch her from the corner of your eye as you leaf through the options on the screen, enjoying the curve of her arse and the cant of her body as she sips her beer then reaches out to touch the tip of one cue, the buckle on her wrist jangling in the the quiet. She rubs her fingers together when they come away blue, turns and catches you watching her.

"What've you chosen?" she asks, and you belatedly turn your attention back to the machine.

"Er," you stammer, flicking through a few pages all at once. A few things have caught your eye, though. "Chili Peppers?" you suggest. "Pearl Jam?" Anyone who thought either of those were shit needed their head examined.

"The first one," she says, and you comply, picking three songs from their greatest hits album.

She's still inspecting the cue rack, and you're about to drop your last coin into the jukebox when a different idea occurs to you.

"You know how to handle one of those?" you ask. "Fancy a game?"

She turns her head to look at you again, slowly, eyebrow raised and expression disbelieving. "Do you hear what comes out of your mouth sometimes? _Do I know..._ Kid, I was playing pool in pubs while you were still in nappies."

You smile, enjoying that look from her for once, feeling reckless. "Prove it, then," you say, and toss her the coin. "Rack up."

She looks affronted at being ordered about, but her hand shoots out to catch the coin. You hit play on the jukebox and then watch as she rounds the table to the opening bars of a rock song, leather flashing under the lights as a guitar riff heralds her movement. She sets her beer down on a nearby table, bends down to insert the coin. There's a low rumble as the balls are released, and then she's sliding the triangle onto the table and dropping the balls into it, one by one, a rainbow of kelly pool colours. You select a cue as she works, wander back up to the top of the table, take a moment to enjoy the view, sipping your beer and having a good perv down her top. You take a few steps back to set your glass down as she drops the black ball into place, then looks up and smiles.

"Catch," she says, flicking her wrist so the cue ball rolls down the table, and you have to scramble back to grab it before it bounces off the cushion. She's smirking as you line up the ball, eases the triangle up and then dangles it from a finger. "Go on, then," she says, watching you. "Show me what you're made of."

It's instant pressure, but you refuse to be put off. You've played a lot of pool, you're confident that you're good. You let her watch as you reach under the table and find the chalk dangling from it, rub it on the end of your cue, hoping the gesture looks as obscene as it did when she adjusted her belt. You line up the shot, nod your head a few times to the music, and then, when you're ready, send the cue ball hurtling down the table and watch in satisfaction as the coloured balls scatter across the table.

"Nice," she acknowledges, surveying the break you've offered her. You step back as she walks the table, brushes past you, decides what her move will be. When she's satisfied, she takes position, aims, and drops the blue stripe into the closest pocket.

Her next shot sinks the red. Standing by the table with your beer, your eyebrows raise and you nod in appreciation, look her up and down in a whole new way. She's good. You've got your work cut out for you. She misses her third shot, gives you a go.

You stretch your fingers and she laughs. You glance at her, say nothing. Keep 'em guessing. You hum along to _By the Way_ as you circle the table. Line up, shoot, sink the yellow, follow it up with the blue. You want three, though, want to get ahead. You line up the red, miss, curse under your breath.

"Don't worry," her voice is singsong. "You've only made us even."

She pots one on her first shot, misses the next. Your sink two, she catches up. Your next shot is abysmal, she grins and knocks another one in. She twirls her cue as she walks, hips swaying, looking for the next shot.

"Don't fuck it up," you say, and she glances at you and shakes her head. She pots another, misses. Only one of hers left on the table.

You are _not_ going to lose. Giving yourself a shake, you drain your beer, step forward. She's leaning on the bar table, pint in hand. Her eyebrows quirk when you look at her, and it galvanises you. If you lose you'll never live this down.

Green, side pocket. You sink it. Orange, left corner. In. The cue ball rolls behind her brown and you sigh, looking at the angle you'll have to make to sink your purple. Her heel clicks against the floor, the song changes. Last one, you think absently.

You sink it. She curses, and you look up and smile. It's just the black, now. You chalk your cue again.

The black ball sails across the table and into the pocket.

"In nappies, huh?" you crow as you right yourself, rolling your shoulders. "Maybe you should have tried harder."

She's red in the cheeks, mouth pursed. Digs her hand into her pocket and pulls out some change. "Best of three," she demands, and you laugh.

"If you want to keep losing, love."

She arches a brow. "Oh, you're on. Get us another beer."

This time, you're happy to fetch. You lean your cue against the table and saunter over to the bar as she sets up a new game, puts some more money in the jukebox. Deep Purple starts to play as you carry the beers back over.

"Showing your age now," you say, setting the beers down after you've had a drink from one. You're not sure on what beer you got comfortable taking the piss out of her, but she doesn't seem inclined to crack you over the head for it.

She smiles, in fact. "Obviously not that badly, if you recognise it."

You incline your head. "Point." The table is all ready to go, she's holding her cue. "Well, go on then," you say, picking up your own.

She nods, and without another word bends over the table. It's quite the sight from where you're standing, her jacket hanging open as she pulls her arm back, sights down her queue. Her body is long, almost impossibly so, it seems in that moment, and the way she bends her knee makes her jeans pull taut against her arse. Her heel lifts off the ground just slightly.

 _Down, boy._

She sinks one on the break.

"Luck," you quip, and she glances over her shoulder at you as she moves past you and smirks.

"If you say so." Her next shot pots another, and then a miss gives you a turn. You survey the table and the options she's given you.

There's one of her balls in every direction. "What the hell is this?" you ask, and she laughs.

"Come on, champion. Don't take too long."

Lip curling, you line up a shot. It's a tough one right from the start. You miss, and the cue ball rolls right back to where it started.

"Oh, bad luck," she murmurs, smiling, bumping you out of the way as she moves in. She pots another two. She's far too smug as she moves back to take a swig of her beer.

Right. You study the table. You've got a few options this time, at least. Lining up, you finally pot one, but your next shot goes awry, giving her yet another chance.

One, two, and you see your chances dwindling every second. You manage two yourself on your next go, but your third attempt leaves the white in the perfect position for her.

"Couldn't have done it better myself," she says, lining up and knocking her yellow right in.

She's going for the black now, walks the table up and down as she contemplates the shot. She makes a decision, bends over, face all concentration.

You drop your cue.

"Oh, sorry." You smile insincerely as she jerks upright, squat to pick it up. Before you can, though, you find her heel in the way, the arch between her foot and stiletto pinning the cue to the floor. You look up at her.

"Cheat," she says, face imperious, but you're far too pleased with yourself to take heed.

"Just upping the pressure," you say, waiting for her to move her foot.

But she doesn't. She leaves it right where it is, which forces you to slide the cue along the floor to get it out from under her boot, the wood scraping along the inside of her heel when you can't hold it straight enough. It's a bizarre friction, hot and unnerving. You're reminded of how long you spent staring at those heels in the car, thinking about feeling their hard edges against your skin, imagining what she'd look like in them and nothing else. By the time you manage to extricate your cue, you're flustered again, shaky and hot in the face.

There's no way she fails to notice. She says nothing, but there's a strange knowing glint in her eye as you stand up, and she carries it in her smile as she moves back to her position at the table, heels making louder clicks than before, unless it's your imagination.

You still haven't recovered your composure when she sinks the black, turns to face you.

"What was the line about trying _harder_?" she asks. There's a subtle emphasis on the last word in the sentence, and the smug triumph in her voice goes right to your cock.

You set up for the next game while she fetches another beer. You've got half a hard-on so you're glad of something to focus on, sliding the triangle onto the table and dropping the balls into it, lining it up then easing the plastic off over them. You're feeling considerably more composed as you set the white ball in place.

She saunters back over with a new beer as you're finishing off your last one.

"Last orders," she says, buckles clinking as she slides the glasses onto the table. She looks up at you. "Ready to lose?" That knowing smile is on her face again.

You won't let her get the better of you again, smile back. "Should we wager?"

She snorts. "With what? You don't have any money."

True. You drum your fingers on the table as you consider. "If I win, I get to drive your car back tomorrow."

Her lips curl. "And if I win?"

You have a few ideas, but you don't think they'll much appeal to her as prizes. "If you win, you get the satisfaction of knowing you're superior to me in every way."

She snorts. "I already know that. If I win, you get that dossier on my desk tomorrow so I don't have to take it home on the weekend."

Dimly, you're aware that that'll mean staying at the office until all hours, but you're full of beer and competition so you smile. "Deal," you say, offering your hand.

Her grip is firm and warm. You don't think you've touched her before, ever. It gives you a little thrill, but she doesn't linger. "Get on with losing, then. Your break."

You nod, roll your shoulders, stretch your neck, head back to the table and take a moment to chalk up your cue.

She sighs loudly. "Milking it," comes her voice from behind her beer glass. You smile as you line up the shot.

Your break sinks a red spot; you inspect your handiwork. Not bad, if you do say so yourself. You follow the red with the orange, and then the yellow, but your next shot misses, and the white ends up in a good position for her. She looks supremely confident as she moves into position.

The bar owner taps you on the shoulder. "I've closed up now," he says, "and I'm heading upstairs. You two stay as long as you like, finish your game. I emptied the keg so I've put another drink for both of you over at your table. They're only half-pints, but they're on the house."

"Cheers, mate," you say, shaking his hand.

"There'll be breakfast starting at 6 tomorrow." He's addressing both of you now - she's stopped to listen.

"Thank you," she calls, as he murmurs his goodnights and ambles off.

"Very trusting," she says, once he's vanished up the stairs.

"We're cops," you counter. "Don't get much more trustworthy than us." The bar's locked anyway, shutters pulled down.

She chuckles, circling the table. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? But not always." She takes a shot, pots her brown. "I nicked half a case of whisky from a crime scene, once."

You've just taken a mouthful of beer and you nearly choke on it with the surprise, coughing and spluttering as she watches you and laughs.

"What?" you manage, when you've regained your breath. "When?"

"Ages ago," she says, slapping her cue against her palm as she eyes her next shot. Her hand curls suggestively around the hilt of it, thumb tapping the rubber end. "Back in the eighties. Some old lush had been hit over the back of the head, his place was full of the stuff. No one ever missed it." She takes another shot, sinks her green. "Me and my girlfriend got right hammered on it on the weekend, though. Had to get rid of the evidence, you see, just in case."

She says all of this with a perfectly straight face, and you wonder if she's taking the piss. Making stuff up. Who'd be able make up a story like that on the fly, though? You shake your head, laugh helplessly into your beer.

"Well I never would have guessed," you say, watching as she takes a third shot and misses.

"You think I was born in charge?" she asks, coming back to the table for her beer.

You take another sip of yours. "Well, sort of," you admit. To be honest, you've never really cared much about who she might actually be as a person. She's just the one who gives you a boner and barks the orders you only sometimes follow.

She snorts. "Kid, the stories I could tell you. You'd go redder than your hair."

"Really?" you ask, sounding entirely too eager. You feel an expression on your face that might be described by an unkind person as a leer.

Her smile turns secretive. "It's your turn," she says, nodding toward the table.

"Right." You move over to take your shot, happily imagining a few scenarios your hot lesbian boss could tell you about to make you blush. Would they involve the desk in her office, Cathy from traffic, a thorough telling-off and then sucking on each other's tits? You're so distracted by the thought that you miss, and the white ball goes bumping into the pocket. Her laughter fills your ears, and you realize _she did that on purpose_. You feel your cheeks colour up, and she's still laughing as she brushes past you to retrieve the white from the belly of the table. _Dirty bitch_ , you think, half resentful and half turned on.

"Didn't even have to say anything," she murmurs as she lines up for her two shots. You stand there trying to think of something you could say to throw _her_ off, but it's hopeless. Nothing seems to get to her except losing. She sinks two balls before she misses again.

You survey the table when your turn comes again. It's not as bad as it could be. There are four of your balls left on the table, three of hers. You managed to come back from worse the first time but you don't want to take that chance again, size up your options. You might not be able to outwit her verbally, but you can on the table. You line up your shot, pot your purple and your green, then look at what you've got. You don't try to sink the blue. Instead, you just tap the cue ball into it, leaving it nestled there between your ball and the cushion, and you waggle your eyebrows at her as she moves in to take her turn.

"Oh, you shit," she mutters, looking at what you left her. You smirk, returning to your beer, watching her as she tries to figure out what to do.

She looks all sexy and thoughtful standing there in the silence assessing (you realise belatedly that the music's stopped, but you kind of like the pressure of the silence now). She's leaning on her cue, shoulders still and neck long. The overhead table lights gleam on her wrist buckle and highlight a particularly blonde streak in her hair. Pensive punk rock; you like it on her.

She takes the shot. She doesn't sink anything, but it's cleverly done - avoids the foul by missing your ball and tapping hers, and leaves you in almost the same position you put her in.

"Well played," you concede, moving in. She returns to the sideline with a smile.

It continues in this vein for the next few goes. At one point you sink a ball and at another, she does, but mostly you knock the cue ball around the table trying to snooker each other. You've got one ball left on the table, you're biding your time, and after the third shot you leave for her that's almost impossible to play you can see she's getting frustrated, fingertips twitching and heels tapping impatiently. You slow your movements, let your feet shuffle, affecting a casual ease. You _could_ go for your blue now, probably - it's not impossible - but if you miss you know she's pissed off enough to clean you up. You kiss your ball with the white one more time.

Her cue taps against the floor. Her heels stalk, her tits rise and fall in that top as her breath quickens. She says nothing, but tension is written in every line of her body as she walks around the table, makes a decision, lines herself up. Her shoulders are tight, though. She hits too hard, sends the ball wide, bouncing around the table and hitting nothing but cushions.

You smile. It's almost painful not to crow but you don't, let her stalk back to the table and finish her beer in peace. There's a swagger in your step as you move in, though, can't help it. You pot your blue with ease, and then you're lining up the black.

"Hope you don't get carsick," you say, and send it home.

Her face is a stubborn line as you return to the table where your beer is resting, drain it casually.

"You're better at that than I thought you'd be," is all she says to acknowledge your win, and you can't help but laugh.

"What can I say? Lesbians: nowhere near as good at handling wood as they like to think they are." Laughing again, you leave her to clean up the table, sauntering back to the booth where there's another beer waiting, sliding in almost to the back and spreading yourself out. You pick up your glass as you watch her drop the remaining balls into the pockets and return the cues to the rack, ready to crow some more when she returns.

As she walks back over, though, you notice she's not scowling anymore. Instead, she's wearing that little smile from earlier, the one that says she knows things you'd prefer she didn't. When she slides into the booth it's not on the opposite side like you'd expect, but rather right in beside you. You feel your body tense up a little, uncertain. You don't move - you've been drinking together all evening now, laughing; she's going to have to do better than that if she wants to make you uncomfortable - but you do watch her closely as she crosses her legs under the table, picks up her beer and takes a casual sip. Her body is angled toward you, shoulder pressed against the seat cushion, and as she lays her glass down her tongue traces her bottom lip.

"So," she says, making eye contact, eyebrow quirking. "You think I don't know how to handle wood?" Her lips stay parted, smiling but barely, eyes sharp.

You feel something quiver. Might be your cock, might be your soul, but whatever it is it makes your fingers warm and your scalp prickle.

For a moment you can't speak. When you do, you try to be careful, uncertain what's going on. Your words come out clunky anyway. "Well, why would you? I mean what with how you and other women...do things. There's no shame in it."

She seems to find that amusing, chuckles as she leans forward just a little more. The angle affords you a view down her top and you can't help seeing it, can't help having a not insignificant look.

"You think I don't know how to get a man going?" is her next question. "You think I never have?" She flexes her leg under the table, her heel presses into your calf. You swallow a whimper; that's definitely your cock twitching now.

"It's not that hard, really," she murmurs, shifting closer. Her heel tugs at your trousers, her hand slips under the table. You feel the backs of her fingers touch the outside of your knee, slide along it, and she watches you, eyes gleaming.

Your throat is dry. "You'd never," you manage, though you're less and less sure of that with every second that passes.

"No?" she asks, challenging, fingers sliding round to the inside of your thigh and inching upward. "We've already established that you don't know _anything_ about me."

Your whimper comes aloud now, you shift a little in your seat as your cock strains against your trousers. "What...?" you manage, trying to find your voice. You're somewhere between terrified and desperately turned on, and you don't know what side you're going to come out on yet. "What are you playing at?"

Her fingers still but remain. "Well, that was a challenge, wasn't it? Second one of the evening? Correct me if I'm wrong." Her eyebrow turns into a question mark.

It hadn't been, not really, but you're not going to pretend you weren't looking at her, that you've never thought about it. You're not going to pretend this isn't about ten of your fantasies playing out at once.

"I never thought you'd..." you breathe, shaking and getting harder by the second.

"Never thought I'd rise to it?" she asks. "Safe, was I? Tits and high heels for the wank bank? Well..." She flexes her heel against your calf for emphasis. "How does it feel when she talks back?"

"Pretty fucking good, if I'm honest," you reply, taking a shuddering breath.

"Rising to the challenge?" she asks, and you nod, swallow.

"Definitely," you say.

Her hand slips the few remaining inches up your thigh to have a feel for herself. "Mm, quite the response," she agrees, giving you a squeeze. You groan and arch helplessly into her hand.

"What happens next in this little fantasy of yours?" she asks, flexing her palm. "What's the next step?"

How can she be asking you to talk right now? "Anything," you manage to rasp. "I'm not in charge."

That makes her laugh. "Damn right," she says, and considers. "Am I giving you a bollocking?"

"Sometimes," you admit, cheeks hot.

"Well, your characterisation's good, I'll give you that," she says. "Is it something like this?" Her other hand slides forward, going for your buckle, and together they tug your belt open.

"Yes," you whisper, as her eyes raise to meet yours again.

"And this?" she asks, popping your fly button and then slowly, slowly tugging down your zipper.

" _Yes_." Your answer is barely a breath.

Her hand burrows into your trousers, pushes your shorts down, and then she's pulling your cock out into the open air. Despite everything, it's almost a shock to see it, even more to see her hand - which has navy-painted fingernails, you notice for the first time - wrapped around it. It takes your brain a few more moments to comprehend it: Julie Dodson, your lesbian boss who hates you, has her hand wrapped around your cock.

This couldn't be more surreal if a rainbow-painted elephant tapdanced through the room.

She doesn't let your attention waver for long, begins to stroke your cock as she asks: "What do I say when I'm bollocking you?"

You feel like a teenager, breathless and hot from just her hand, panting and inarticulate. You reach up to grip the top of the seat cushion and you feel even more sprawled that way but at least it gives you an anchor.

"That I'm," you try, and she gives the head of your cock a squeeze that rips the breath right out of you. When you get it back, you try again. "That I'm slipshod and half-arsed and always bollocksing things up, and what are you going to do with me."

"Mm, good," she murmurs, and pulls her hand away from you just long enough to spit in her palm. When she takes hold of you again her fingers are slick and warm-wet, and she increases the pressure, pumping up and down. "And what _do_ I do with you?" She's shifted even closer now; her breath is hot against your ear.

Your hips move of their own accord, thrusting up into her fist. She twists her hand and you feel her leather sleeve brush against you, hear the jangle of the buckle.

"Sometimes... _God..._ Sometimes you make me get on my knees."

"Oh, that _is_ well-characterised," she breathes, sounding a little laboured now herself. "What else?"

"Sometimes you suck me off," you whisper.

She gives a breathy laugh. Her hand is working you so good, warm and tight and stronger than most of the girls you've been with, who usually seem worried they might hurt you and don't go hard enough. She doesn't seem bothered by that, which shouldn't surprise you. You arch your head back against the cushion and groan.

"You see, the thing about cocks," she murmurs, sounding amused, "is that I can take them-" her hand stills "-or leave them."

Your head spins; it takes you a moment to realize that she's not starting up again, that her fingers are loosening, that you're hard and aching and desperate and _she's fucking stopping_.

"Don't," you whisper. Plead. "Don't stop."

You right your head to look at her and she's got her head cocked to one side, looks positively evil. "Guess that's the problem with reality, isn't it?" she asks. "Free will and all."

" _God_ ," you whisper, thrusting up into her limp fist, trying for any sort of friction. "I..."

She smiles, loosens her fingers until it's just her palm touching you, lets you rub yourself against it a few times. "It's just too _easy_ ," she sighs, shaking her head. "Where's my motivation?"

As your blood cools just slightly, you become aware of your surroundings again. If she doesn't finish this, you're going to have to jerk off in the middle of a pub, or climb those stairs with the most painful hard-on you've ever had. And she will walk away laughing, click off in those damn heels, leave you desperate and humiliated. What can you do to make her continue?

You try to ask. "What...?"

"Beg," she answers, without hesitation.

Oh jesus. You feel your cheeks heat up again, because this sort of thing is in your fantasies, too. It feels different here, though. She's looking right at you and you're not in control, this is not part of a safe little story in your head where it's all for show and you know how it's going to end. Her eyes make you feel bare and her hand is real. Real and not moving because she's making the decisions.

"Please," you whisper, barely a breath.

"Hm?" she asks, though her fingers curl round you again, just lightly.

" _Please_." Your voice is stronger this time. "Please, Ma'am."

She laughs. "Oh, I like that." Her hand takes proper hold of you again.

She adds a second, this time, shifts and reaches in with her other hand, spit damp and steady. Both of them work you now, harder than before. She puts her elbows into it but her eyes are still sharp.

"Again," she demands, and you whisper,

" _Please_."

"And the other." Breathless with exertion.

" _Ma'am_ ," you whimper.

She hums and you see her smiling, watching you as she pulls on your cock, twisting her fists so you cry out, up and down until you're trembling and hissing the pleas of your own accord.

And then you're coming, remembering at the last second not to shout and swallowing a groan as your eyes squeeze closed and you thrust and thrust and thrust into her hands.

When your eyes open again you look down, at her fingers with their blue nails covered in white streaks, at the rest of it covering your cock and pooling in your shorts.

She wipes her hands on your trousers.

"Don't know how to handle wood," she says, and laughs.

You're slumped there, boneless and wordless, unable to do anything but watch as she sits up properly and checks her sleeves, makes sure her hands are clean. When she's satisfied, she leans back in her seat, picks up her beer and takes another drink.

You feel like a twat, unmoving with your cock hanging out. After a moment you manage to right yourself and tuck it back in. When you have, you lift a hand to reach for her, but she stops you with a stare.

"What are you doing?" she asks, the smile twitching at her lips once more.

Your hand stays poised. "Repaying the favour?" you suggest, and she laughs.

"No," she says, tipping her head back and draining her drink. When she sets it down on the table it's like a full stop. "There's nothing I need from you." Her eyes are amused. "Goodnight." With that, she slides out of her seat, turns on her heel, and departs.

Rainbow fucking elephants, you think.

oOo

You wake with a fuzzy head to her pounding on the door. "Come on," she calls through it. "Ten minutes and we're gone."

You roll over, wondering what ungodly bloody hour she thinks is reasonable. You remember setting your alarm for seven, thinking surely that would be early enough, but apparently not. When you look at the clock, though, it's 7:40, and you realise you've slept through.

"Shit," you curse, scrambling out of bed.

You don't have time for a shower, fumble getting dressed. Your jeans from last night are unwearable so you're forced into work trousers, stuffy and uncomfortable. You tug on a t-shirt - it looks stupid, but hell if you're putting on a button-down today - and shove all your things in your bag, taking another few moments to wash your face before you stumble down the stairs.

She's waiting for you, foot tapping, suit immaculate and keys in hand. "You missed breakfast," she says. "I'm not waiting for you, anyway. Grab something to eat in the car."

You scramble to the buffet, make yourself an egg and bacon sandwich, throw down a glass of juice. You take less than five minutes but she looks impatient on your return.

"You better not make a mess in my car." She leads the way out the door.

You toss your overnight bag into the open boot. She pulls the door down and thuds it closed, glances at you, makes for the driver's door.

"Wait," you say, stopping her. "Aren't I driving?"

Her heel comes down on the gravel driveway, she turns to look at you. It's the smile she wore last night, knowing and amused and sharp as a knife.

"Oh Kevin," she says, shaking her head. "You really think you won?"


End file.
